


No Light, No Light (In Your Bright Blue Eyes)

by pentaghastly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Cousin Incest, F/M, Queen in the North, Reunion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:19:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentaghastly/pseuds/pentaghastly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She used to always wear her red hair up in braids, in the Southron styles which were so appealing to her, used to always want to be a Queen (she got that wish, though he can hardly imagine how little she wanted it, to rule over these zombies, the living dead of the North). She used to dress in fancy styles, in clothes which she sewed herself, painstakingly over the light of the fire with her Septa. She used to sing songs of love and romance, and light used to sparkle in her clear blue eyes -- clear blue like Robb’s, but not as strong, always softer, sweeter, more docile, more afraid. She was a child, a child with dreams and hopes and love, nothing more, never anything more.</p>
<p>And then she rides out to meet him at the gates herself atop her horse, and no one could mistake her for a child now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Light, No Light (In Your Bright Blue Eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> This is sortaaaaa gonna be a multi-chapter Jon/Sansa fic, in which Sansa takes the North, marries Jon in an attempt to solidify their nation, and hot Stark lovin ensues. Like all my fics, R+L=J.

Jon returns to Winterfell, expecting to find his home.

Instead he finds a graveyard, both in its own appearance and in its residents, the unlikely survivors of a devastating war. There is no colour to be seen, the stern-faced Northerners dressed in black and gray blending seamlessly into the monochromatic backdrop. Faces of stone and faces of steel are all that he can see, devastation and death etched into the creases of their skin like the carvings on a statue. Their eyes are hollow and lifeless -- there is no hope there, not anymore.

For what do they have left to hope for? A better life for their children? Most of their children didn’t survive the winter, or the war, the dark nights and the monsters that lurk within the shadows of the forests. Do they hope that Sansa will be able to save them? Surely not, for although she is a strong Queen, a brave girl, she is a _girl_. She has not the power of Robb or the strength of her father -- she is a girl, a girl changed but a girl none the less.

That’s what he thinks, at least, until he sees her the day he arrives in the crypt which he once called home. She used to always wear her red hair up in braids, in the Southron styles which were so appealing to her, used to always want to be a Queen (she got that wish, though he can hardly imagine how little she wanted it, to rule over these zombies, the living dead of the North). She used to dress in fancy styles, in clothes which she sewed herself, painstakingly over the light of the fire with her Septa. She used to sing songs of love and romance, and light used to sparkle in her clear blue eyes -- clear blue like Robb’s, but not as strong, always softer, sweeter, more docile, more afraid. She was a child, a child with dreams and hopes and love, nothing more, never anything more.

And then she rides out to meet him at the gates herself atop her horse, and no one could mistake her for a child now.

Sansa’s hair hangs down in long curls to her waist, no longer done up in the fashionable styles which she once favored so much, not in the intricate braids which the Dragon Queen has made so popular. It hangs down, long and free, the most brilliant colour of red he thinks he has ever seen, not so much in its vibrancy, for Ygritte would always be victorious on that front, but in its depth, for he thinks, if he looks hard enough, that he can see every colour of the rainbow in its strands, everything that is beautiful and rich in the word hidden in the curls.

There are no longer dreams in her crystalline eyes, he realizes quite soon after he sees her. There is no longer light, no longer the happiness of a young girl, the hope and satisfaction of a young queen, of a girl who has finally found herself in command, back home. She smiles at him with faint satisfaction, a small amount of pleasure to be seen on her rosy lips, but her eyes are an abyss of nothingness, as dead as the rest of them.

Jon returns to Winterfell to find his home, to find his sister. Instead he finds a graveyard, and in it, the corpse of the one person who was meant to be his last hope.

xx

The “feast” to celebrate his return can hardly be called as such. It is a dull affair, without music or entertainment. Jon had rarely been allowed to attend feasts at Winterfell in his youth, but he had always remembered them as a joyous affair, one filled with energy and laughter, the drunken jests of the Northmen a familiar sound, one that is still etched in his mind despite years without.

So when Sansa tells him of the feast they shall be having, this is not what he had expected. Not in the least. There is an abundance of food, he will give her that much, but it is bland and tasteless, the meat having the same flavor as the potatoes, as the bread, as his wine. Stern-faced Northerners eat their meals in a sullen silence, apart from his sister ( _cousin,_ he reminds himself, and what a strange thought that is indeed). Sansa makes attempts to interact with those around her, giving polite smiles, trying to evoke some chatter, bring life back into the kingdom of dead whose throne she now sits upon.

But the life is gone from her as well, he sees it. He sees it in the pools of her ice-blue eyes, once alight with fire, not as dead as the world around them. And as such her attempts for fruitless, for how does a member of the dead expect to revive the lifeless, when she cannot even revive herself?

Jon pities her. He pities all of them, but he cannot say that he does not understand. For he has been brought back to life himself, reanimated, reborn amidst salt and smoke, and when the fire in his heart was reignited, all he had wanted to do was slide back into sleep, one long and eternal, without light, without pain. Once one has felt the sweet, peaceful touch of death, then life no longer has the same pull. Not after a war, not life in a world built on pain and blood. In this life, in this time that they live it is best to die a sweet death than live a broken existence, and for the people of Winterfell, that is all that they have left.

And so he chooses to converse with Sansa over dinner, speaking in hushed tones about the state of the castle -- even though he can see the way things are for himself for the most part, he feels the need to make conversation, and they do not have much else to talk about, not anymore. They never really had anything to talk about at all, and this is new territory for the both of them; new, but not entirely unwelcome.

“I am sure you can tell that Winterfell is still...struggling, to say the least,” her voice is sweet, pretty and gentle like a bird’s song, but there is a steel beneath it that sets him slightly on edge, makes him question just who she has become, and what exactly happened to her to make her become this new person. “It will never be the castle of our youth, Jon. Not in our lifetime, not for many years to come. I know that just as well as my people do. No matter how hard we work, Winterfell will never be home again, not for us. But we must try, do you not agree? If not for ourselves, then for our children, and for our children’s children. It will be a home again, I can promise you that.”

Sansa’s determination rings through his ears, the most genuine emotion he has seen since his return, and he cannot help but think that she might not be as dead as he had previously thought.

xx

When their meal is finished, Jon takes it upon himself to escort her to her chambers.

It is the gentlemanly thing to do, after all. And no one would think to argue his intentions, for a former man of the Night’s Watch would not be capable of indecent action against his cousin, once-sister, not in the eyes of her people. He cannot help but scoff at their preconceptions -- of course, he has no desire to lay a hand upon Sansa, and knows she undoubtedly feels the same, but that is not to say he is less of a man, as the majority of the people he has encountered since the fall of the Wall seem to believe he is. Perhaps once, when he was bound to the ties of his oaths, he might appreciate the validity behind their beliefs, but he is bound to oaths no more, and he is a man like any other.

There are nights when he still dreams of Ygritte, of the times they spent together under her furs, in the cave where they planned to stay for all their lives, where he still wishes they could. And then there are nights when her face turn into that of the Red Woman, who had snaked her way into his bed with whispered words and a fiery touch (and if Ygritte was kissed by fire, Melisandre had been born into it, had made love to it, had been consumed by it entirely).

But Sansa is his once-sister, now cousin, forever Queen, and nothing more. He may not have much, but he still has his honor.

“Do you plan to marry someday, Jon?” she asks him, voice filled with a child-like curiosity, but he cannot help but feel that this is no innocent question. Sansa’s innocence was stripped away from her in the war, he knows this, and he will not allow her to make him believe otherwise. And so he remains silent for a moment before answering her question, making sure to think his reply through throughly before speaking.

“I have not considered it,” and it is the most honest answer he can give her, for in truth he has given no thought to the idea in the slightest. “I suppose, in truth, that the whole concept of marriage seems rather...artificial after a war, do you not agree? From constant death to new life and love so quickly, it cannot be real. And it seems so shallow, after so many have died, given their lives for us, to simply move on quickly, to start rebuilding as soon as possible, to continue on with our lives and act as if nothing has happened.” And then he knows he has said enough, _too much_ , perhaps, so he bites his tongue and raises his eyebrow at her curiously, questioningly. “Why do you ask, sister?”

Sansa shakes her head at him, dead eyes alight with the faintest spark of amusement. “Not sister anymore, Jon. Cousin. Which brings me to the point of my question.” He knows where this is going, he must, but still he does not say a word, hopes she does not mean to ask, prays that it is not what it must be. And yet it is, he knows it is, for the gods have never answered to his prayers before. “I am a Queen, and a Queen must wed. A Queen must produce heirs, and I have no desire to marry one of my bannermen. Loyal men, no doubt, but they do not know how to rule. Not like you do. I would marry you, Jon Snow, make you King in the North, and together the Starks would rule Winterfell once more.”

And before he knows it they have reached her chambers, the flickering candlelight causing her red hair to look ablaze, and he thinks that she must be kissed by fire as well, for there in the corridor she looks to be made of fire entirely, consumed by flame.

And then a blink and she is gone, vanished into the shadows, and around him there is silence.


End file.
